


Dirty Love

by Saziikins



Series: Dirty Politics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their relationship hits the press, Greg and Sherlock just can't seem to agree on what to do next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Love

**Author's Note:**

> There may be one more part to this.

He knows no matter how he ages, no matter how the rest of their lives go, Sherlock will always be beautiful. He will always have those electric eyes and easy grace. He will always have his sharp tongue too, and he will know how it make his words hurt when he lashes out. But he will always temper those spiteful words with his own fragility, kept secret and hidden but ever-present no matter how he denies it. 

He looked like that as they stood in Greg’s office, Greg slamming his fist down on the desk, Sherlock unwilling and seemingly unable to back down. Greg knew that if he could freeze that moment and assess the scene, he would flinch from the aggression in his face and the anger steaming through his veins. But all he could do was scream at his lover of 10 months because this wasn’t the plan. 

It was three weeks on from the first news reports of their ‘secret gay love affair’ and the story wasn’t going away. Oh no. It had been front page news for every one of those 21 days in some guise or another. 

Photographic departments had dug out pictures from the election campaign, those pictures with Sherlock’s shadowy figure in the background while Greg gave speeches. Behind-the-scenes shots no one gave two fucks about at the time, but which suddenly took on a life of their own, splashed across the front page. 

And it felt like every time Greg opened the papers, his policies and speeches were crammed into tiny boxes on page 35, while Sherlock’s face was everywhere. And he could barely stand to look at them, because all he saw was the beauty and poise of a man he knew to be far too young for him. And the secret delicate man he wanted to protect from the very world he had allowed Sherlock to enter. This seedy, dark world Greg had fought so hard not to be a part of himself. 

Oh, Sherlock had dragged him into this and Greg had followed him willingly. But three weeks on, and the newspapers had learned all about Sherlock’s drug history, and the reason he got kicked out of university. They’d recited comments from self-claimed friends who pretended they understood the man Greg had grown to know better than anyone ever had. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to care. At least, he didn’t care about himself and what these reports said about him. He cared about how it reflected on Greg, and his position and whether he might need to eventually make a public statement.

“I will wait this out,” Greg told him. “I’ll keep doing what we’re doing and eventually they’ll give up and get bored.”

“You don’t get!” Sherlock snapped back. “They don’t get bored. Not with this titillating drivel. This… thing we’re doing is important to them. And it’s distracting you from the job in hand. Now, if I disappear for several months, if we break up…”

“It’s not even an option.”

“I’m not giving you a choice.”

Greg stared at him, shaking his head. “Oh right, what? So, first sign of trouble, Sherlock Holmes pisses off and gives up, is that it?”

“I joined your campaign so you would win, and you won. But what’s the point in winning if you can’t hang onto your position?”

“It’s my personal life, Sherlock. It has nothing to do with how I run the country.”

“It has everything to do with it, don’t you see that? Look at us right now. Every single member of your staff is obsessed our relationship, because they’re in damage control mode. Already a housing bill is being put on hold because there’s no point announcing a new policy when the papers will hardly notice. This is getting in the way of your work and it will not go away.” 

Greg pounded his fist on his desk and let out an exasperated yell. Sherlock didn’t even flinch. His crystal blue eyes just remained fixed on Greg, as though waiting for his next move. 

Greg sunk into his chair. Some of his anger melted away along with the defeated gesture. “It’s only been three weeks,” he said quietly. “Maybe we just… business as usual.” 

“I shouldn’t keep working for you. I should resign.”

“That makes us look like we have problems.” 

“We do.”

Greg frowned at him. “Do we?”

Sherlock looked away from him then, for the first time since this argument began, he looked away. There it was. Almost-unnoticeable but it was there, something akin to helplessness. 

Greg slowly rose from his chair and took one cautious step towards him. Sherlock could be like a cat. Wary, with a tendency to spring away if wrong-footed. But he let Greg approach. He reached out and rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“We’re either doing this or we’re not,” Greg murmured. “We’re either giving it one hundred per cent, or we’re stopping. There isn’t a half-way point. And I don’t want this to be over.”

Sherlock’s eyes blazed with frustration. “What does that mean? Giving it one hundred per cent?”

“That we start treating this in the same way we would treat this if you were my wife. Business as usual. You come to some of the official engagements and dinners. You start staying here, living here. We have to do this properly.”

Greg wasn’t prepared for the look in Sherlock’s eyes. A despairing fragility, like a lost lamb cowering under a bush under the watchful gaze of a predator. He had never seemed so young. “Sherlock?” Greg prompted, squeezing his shoulder, thinking he may just flee any second. 

“You say you want all of that,” Sherlock whispered, not meeting his eyes. “You make all those promises. But you’ve never once given any indication that I’m about more than just sex and the work.” 

Greg swallowed back the lump in his throat, the feeling like he had been slapped on the face. “What?” 

“Well, am I more than that?” 

Greg stared at him. “I just asked you to move in with me.”

“Yes, out of duty to it. Because that’s what you think will prove to the press and the public that we’re serious. That this is more than a fling. But I’m not sure. I don’t know if you are serious about me… Or if you’re just trying to make a point.” 

“Sherlock…”

But Sherlock cut him off with a shake of the head and a soft press of lips to his cheek. “I can’t move in with you, Greg. I can’t do this one hundred per cent. But you are right about one thing. We should be ‘business as usual’. Put the important bills back on the table. Let me do my job, and you do yours. The press can’t print anything worse than they have already, can they? They’ve already written every arse-licking and cradle-snatching innuendo they can possibly come up with.”

“And what about you and me?” Greg asked quietly, unwilling to watch him leave his office, let alone his life.

“You need to work that out for yourself,” Sherlock told him, taking hold of his hand and lowering it from his shoulder. “But I am waiting for you to figure it out.” 

“I’m not like you, Sherlock. You always tell me I don’t… don’t observe.”

Sherlock smiled then, a little wistful smile nudging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m the one who doesn’t do sentiment, remember? I think when it comes to this, you will be the one who works it out.” And then he left the room, leaving Greg stood there, more confused than ever. 

But he returned to work with renewed energy. At the next Cabinet meeting, he pledged to get the housing bill back on the table as soon as possible. And it would pass, he told them. Because it simply had to. 

He didn’t see Sherlock. He knew from Sally that he was doing the same work he always did. Watching, assessing, sending notes to Greg’s MPs to ensure they voted along party lines. He worked closely with the Chief Whip, keeping everyone in line. And he did that well, because he understood the MPs, and their alliances and saw their weaknesses and knew the games they played. No one understood the cracks in the party better than Sherlock did. And no one could toy with them in the ways Sherlock could. 

Three more weeks passed, and the housing bill was back on. Sherlock was still being hounded by the paparazzi and since he wasn’t married to Greg, he wasn’t afforded any protection on the taxpayers’ dime. But in pictures, he always seemed to look right through them. He was enigmatic, cool, composed, confident. 

He was, in short, everything Greg had been attracted to in the first place. Right down to those obscenely fitted shirts and steely gaze. That was all of Sherlock’s exterior though. The pictures didn’t capture the young man Greg had come to know. 

Young. Christ, but Sherlock was young. Yet he played old men’s games aplomb. He played men three times his senior and sent them round and round in circles until they got so dizzy they forgot they were chasing their tails. He was a manipulative bastard. He did the things Greg didn’t have the stomach for. So much so, that Greg didn’t ever ask what Sherlock did. He just accepted the results.

And what did he need more? Sherlock, the puppet master, moving the chess pieces around, playing politics in the dirt? The man who would lie naked on his bed, ethereal, long fingers wrapped around his prick, self-aware in his own wantonness? 

Or did he need Sherlock as he truly was, flushed cheeks, shy smiles, the smug wink ‘because people sometimes do that’ even though the truth was, only creepy people did that? Sherlock who locked himself up so tight that sometimes he seemed as though he would explode? Volatile, dangerous, and oh-so-sweet. As beautiful as the sun, but don’t touch, you’ll get burned. 

And five weeks had passed. And Greg couldn’t take it anymore, the distance between them when yes, the truth was obvious. Sherlock had once asked if Greg loved him, and he hadn’t answered, couldn’t answer, because he was afraid it would make him admit to the terrible things Sherlock sometimes did for him. He barged into his staff’s offices, the door handle smashing into the wall. 

Sally rose from her seat. “Sir-”

Greg pointed his thumb to Sherlock’s office door. “Is he in?” he demanded.

She nodded, frowning, slowly sitting back down. “Get back to work,” he said before knocking twice on Sherlock’s door and letting himself in. Sherlock was seated behind his desk, feet on the table, texting on his phone. He didn’t even look up, just kept typing away. “Stop that for a second.”

Sherlock didn’t move. “In a minute. Busy.”

Greg rolled his eyes, tapping his foot impatiently. “Sherlock-”

“-It’s been five weeks since we’ve spoken, I’m sure you can handle one more minute.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to him then, running down the length of his body. “Or perhaps not.” He lowered the phone, tilting his head. 

Greg swallowed, tension settling between them. He wasn’t sure what he had come here to say. They had never officially ended, it was never over. But they hadn’t spoken, and now Sherlock had said that aloud, he became more acutely aware of it. 

“You came here,” Sherlock said, taking his legs off the table. “I think you have to speak first.”

“Get up.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but did as he was instructed, putting the phone down on the desk. Greg strode towards him, stopping only when they got within a foot of each other. “This office,” he said softly. “This office matters to me. I can do more good in five years than I could do in the rest of my lifetime. But I realise that this only works if you’re here, doing the things I won’t do.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Took a while for you to accept that.”

“We don’t talk about what you do for me. Because I’m too afraid to hear the answers. But that’s never going to work, is it? You’re one person. Your… work, and your personality… You do what you do because of who you are. Because you are a fucking bastard sometimes.”

“This isn’t a good tactic if you want to fuck me over my desk.”

Greg almost managed a laugh. “I’m not trying to fuck you over your desk. I’m not trying to fuck you at all.”

“Mmm. No. I can see that. Are you firing me?”

“No, I’m not firing you. I’m telling you that I… If I want to be with you, then I have to take every bit of you. And I do love you. That’s what you needed to hear, right?”  
“It… it helps,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s not just fucking. It’s not just about the work.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s posture relaxed, though it was hardly noticeable. If Greg hadn’t know him so well, he wouldn’t even have seen it. 

Greg nodded. “Then I’ll see you tonight?” 

Sherlock sunk back down in his chair and retrieved his phone. “You can expect me after nine.”

“Thank you.” Greg took one last look at him before leaving the room, his chest just as tight as it had been before he had arrived. 

At nine o’clock, he lay the table for dinner. Sherlock arrived at ten minutes past, and leaned against the doorway. “Lasagne again?”

“I can’t cook much else.”

Sherlock smiled and walked in, taking a seat at the table. Greg walked up behind him, dropping a kiss down on the top of his head, resting his hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes soft. “I know.” He squeezed Greg’s hand. “But at least now you know what you really want.”

“I do, Sherlock. I really do. And it’s you and me. We still have to talk though.”

Sherlock let go of his hand. “Serve the food then.”

Greg laughed and dished up the lasagne with salad and Balsamic vinegar. They ate their meal accompanied by idle chit chat, catching up on work, discussing media tactics and Greg’s schedule for the coming month. 

With their plates clean and stomachs full, they walked through to Greg’s bedroom. They stood by the open window, passing a cigarette between them. Greg wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, letting silence linger between them. 

“Do you want me to tell you what I do for you?” Sherlock finally asked. Greg hummed his agreement and Sherlock stamped the cigarette out. “I watch every MP. I note who they talk to, who they stop talking to. I catch them out in their lies, their affairs and how they make money on the side. I know who is dirty, who is clean, who is an alcoholic and who are coasting. And I use it to our advantage. I’ve blackmailed MPs you like, and MPs you trust. I’ve leaked stories on the opposition to the press. When Higgins was caught in his attempts to play the stock market, I was the one who ensured it was front page news. The press never know it’s me who leaks the story, but I give them the leads. My brother has access to top secret documents. He shows me them. I know more about your secret service than you do.”

“You’re not elected. You’re not supposed to know that.”

Sherlock ignored him. “When this ends, in four more years, or in nine, your legacy is going to be intact. They’re not going to remember you for being the gay Prime Minister. They’re going to remember what you did for healthcare and education and how you stabilised the economy. The public will know you were clean, and that you didn’t lie to them. Because all the lies are being told by me. Because you’re not playing games. I am.”

“Someone’s going to catch you out. Tell the press about your blackmail.”

“I’m far too clever for that.” Sherlock kissed the side of his neck. “They never see me coming.”

Greg snorted. “Not sure how that’s possible. Your ego is the size of Africa…”

“But they’ve all realised I’ll do anything for you. They see that I would never do anything to hurt your position. They think because I’m your man, I must be good. Because why else would you have chosen me for the job? Why else would you take me to your bed? They know you’re a good man. Apparently that makes me a good one too by default.”

“But you’re not,” Greg whispered, frowning. “You’re a great man, but you’re not good, are you?”

“No. Can you accept that?”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock touched Greg’s jaw, tilting his head so he looked at him. “Before I met you, I thought it was impossible to be both good and electable. And I think I’m mostly right about that. You can’t win the next election without me. You couldn’t win the last one without me. I did things you don’t want to know about. But you won. You won because you are good, and you won because I’m not.”

“And that’s why we work.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him. “And because you give me a very long leash.”

Greg began to smile back, rolling his eyes as he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. “You’ve got no bloody leash. And even if I tried to put one on you, you’d find a way of wriggling out of it.”

The smirk on Sherlock’s face was positively filthy. “Are we talking about a metaphorical leash? Or do you want to put a real one on me, Mr Prime Minister?”

“Fucking hell…” Greg kissed him then, held him close, gripped his hips and pushed him into the wall. Their teeth clanged, and their lips became swollen and tender. Their nails left crescents in each other’s skin, and bite marks spoke of claiming and being claimed. Greg fucked Sherlock into the mattress so that the headboard was smacking against the wall, and his balls slapped against his arse and Sherlock only yelled out for more and scraped red lines down Greg’s back with his nails.

Greg came inside him, and took his cock in his mouth, filling his arse with his fingers, using his come for lubricant, as he sucked him off. Sherlock writhed and moaned, and muttered obscenities. 

And they lay together, spent. Greg could taste Sherlock’s come on his tongue, see his own drying on the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. It was downright filthy, the only way sex could be. And as Sherlock straddled his hips and kissed him deeply, searching his mouth with his tongue, Greg could only give in to him. He could only give in to Sherlock’s way of doing things. 

It was dirty, it was wrong, it wasn’t the way he did things. 

But as Sherlock lay beside him, his eyes closed, hand curled around Greg’s arm, he looked so innocent then. And Greg loved every layer of him. And despite the moral questions still swirling in his head, he had to concede that things worked better when Sherlock was there. 

And if he doubted, if he grew resentful, then he only had to remember that Sherlock wasn’t always bad, and wasn’t always a manipulator. Sometimes he was soft. Sometimes he was tender. Sometimes he would lie at Greg’s side and draw lazy patterns on his skin with the tips of his fingers. Sometimes he was fragile. Sometimes he needed reassurance too. 

And every night, when they could, Greg would hold him. And despite his concerns, he was glad Sherlock was his man. And alone, in their room, they could leave the world outside.


End file.
